


retrograde

by Spineless



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Concussions, Endeavour Morse Whump, Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Endeavour Morse, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24213940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: Morse finds himself in the middle of another collapse at Cranmer House, but can't, for the life of him, remember what he was doing there. The men at Division have questions. Morse has headaches.
Relationships: Dorothea Frazil & Endeavour Morse, Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday, Endeavour Morse & Jim Strange, Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday, Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse, Monica Hicks/Endeavour Morse, most of the ships are really just like lacroix flavoring
Comments: 27
Kudos: 72





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for later chapters:  
> general illness/injury depiction including nausea/vomiting  
> some disordered eating that eventually gets resolved  
> some discussion of alcoholism & withdrawal

_“Cranmer House. Disturbance.”_

_“What kind of disturbance?”_

_“Trespassing.”_

Morse gives the looming towers a careful look as he approaches. His brain is still alight with the contents of the lost letters of the Teagarten bequest. Thursday said they'd go visit Burrowes as soon as he was back. What was it Jago said, those weeks ago? There and back in forty minutes? He fights off the bad taste in his throat.

At the edge of the lot are two cars, one patrol, its light flashing but siren silent, one unmarked. He recognizes the two women beside the two uniformed officers instantly as Viv Wall and Miss Thursday––Joan. He tugs his collar.

His footsteps draw their attention from the animated conversation they were holding. He nods in greeting. “Ms. Wall. Miss Thursday. PC…?” The younger of the two is familiar. Davies, he thinks. Drove back Thursday's niece from the Roxy, that time. Carol.

“Stetson, sir, and Davies.” 

“Detective Morse, finally, someone with a bit of sense.” Ms. Wall unfolds her arms. 

“Information room said trespassers?” His eyes flick between the two parties, he takes care not to notice Joan’s wide eyes, the sky blue silk ribbon in her hair that matches them. 

“That’s right, sir, and we rounded ‘em all up, but then these two––”

“Some concerned samaritans gave us a word and told us what was going on. Clearly, Detective, it’s immoral to chain up these people, these survivors who’ve lost everything, like they’re common criminals. Some nuance, here? Some mercy, perhaps?”

Morse shoots Stetson a look, who shoots Davies a look, who goes round and opens the patrol car doors. His keys jingle, as do the cuffs.

“While I have sympathy, Ms. Wall, they’ve still broken the law. The area has been cordoned for a reason, there’ve been reports of the structure’s instability for weeks.” 

“Leniency is in order here, surely.”

“They’ll need to be processed at the station in any case. It’ll be the DCI’s call after that. I’m sure… well. With the circumstances, I’m sure something appropriate can be reached.” 

“Arresting houseless people is hardly ever appropriate, Sergeant.” Ms. Wall gives him a hard look. Joan does too, but he’s taking care not to notice. The PC keeps looking off to the side. 

Morse sighs, a short, impatient sound. To Stetson, he asks, “This is everyone?” 

Davies straightens up. The two PCs share a blatant look. 

“Well?”

Davies swallows, licks his lips. “There... “

Stetson cuts in. “I didn’t hear no one else, sir.”

Morse ignores him and takes a few steps towards the younger man. “PC Davies? Were there four people, or five? Or more?” 

“There might’ve… I don’t know if I could swear to it, sir, but as we were leaving, I thought I hear someone else.”

“What did you hear?” 

“Footsteps. Shuffling, like moving things ‘round.” He shrugs. 

“Right. Well. Head back to the station and report to the DCI. Ms. Wall and Miss Thursday will be meeting you there. And Ms. Wall is correct. These are people. Have some kindness.” 

He starts off away from the lot toward the tower but Joan calls out, “Are you serious? You can’t be going in there.” 

He doesn't turn. “DC Jago should be shortly if you’d like a second opinion. But the sooner you get to the station, the sooner these people can––can get on.”

Plaster cracks under the soles of his shoes. The building is haunting in its emptiness, its dark windows like hollow eyes. The collapsed section mars the surface like a scar. The area before him is heavily wrapped in yellow ribbon, even the dirty parts bright against the grey and beige slabs and beams. He wonders if a thing like this is fixable. He hears tires on asphalt, but can’t tell if they’re coming or going. There _is_ a noise from within, like water gurgling in a fountain. He steps forward into darkness.

**_________________**

  
  
  


**_______________**

_ “Morse?” _

_Peter_? The air smells like a half-collapsed mine. Morse chokes on a mouthful of dust. 

_ “Morse!” _

It can’t be Peter. He’s an ocean away. Right? 

His tongue tastes like the rotten floorboards of a haunted Victorian boarding school. He coughs and retches and things above him shift, solid things, narrow and heavy things. There’s something across his waist and legs keeping him from moving too much. Maybe the half-charred beams of a burning old theatre. His ears ring. Are those klaxons?

No. No. This is none of that, he knows, but it still smells familiar. White dust, like plaster. 

_“Morse!”_

Whoever it is, Not-Peter, is close now, his voice louder. There’s a tiny clink, the sound of brick hitting brick, another voice. Pressure increases in one place and decreases in another. The world around him twists. Morse gasps around the pain and whirling and incoherent babble of someone trying to talk to him. He loses whatever it was keeping him tied down. 

* * *

His eyes open to a passing white hallway ceiling and a blue-uniformed-white-capped nurse leaning over him. 

“Oh, Mr. Morse, good, you’re awake.” 

Her features are blurred but it’s clear she’s smiling. He wants to ask where he is, what’s going on, but he can’t form the questions in his mouth.

“You’ve just had an x-ray, you’ll be happy to hear, now that’s quite a bump you’ve got you know, but nothing’s broken. You’re lucky!”

 _Lucky._ His head. His aching head. His hip’s smoldering like it did when he was first shot. Bleeding on the carpet of that wretched house. He shuts his eyes. Shifting under a beam, moving, or trying to, but he’s pinned—

“Mr. Morse?”

No, that was that theatre, wasn’t it? The Roxy. It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t go to Casualty when he was shot, either. This isn’t the morgue.

“Mr. Morse, is there something…?”

His hand flexes against the sheets. Everything spins—he doesn’t know what’ll happen if he opens his eyes. 

“M—My hip.” He feels his tongue push sand against the back of his teeth. 

They must turn a corner. It’s like his whole world is rolling over, again.

The nurse still speaks. “Yes, you had a second x-ray on your leg, nothing broken there, either.”

Broken? He doesn’t feel exactly _whole._ But he doesn’t feel, exactly.

“Quite lucky. Now, we’ll get you somewhere to rest, hm?”

Lucky. Finally, his world stills. He feels his blood pound together in his head and leg, his arms, his stomach. He cautions his eyes open to a plain grey tiled ceiling. “Is—?”

There’s tugging at the sheets, pulling them taut under him. He hears a “ _...two, three!_ ” and then, just pain.

_____

People keep waking him up, but he ignores them.

He's tired.

_____

“Morse, I need you to open your eyes for me.” 

DeBryn’s voice startles him into movement and the movement startles him awake. Morse peers blearily around and tries to blink the world into clarity. 

“That’s it. There’s a good man.” 

He wants to say _Doctor_? but only manages a hoarse, “Max?” 

“I’m here, old fellow.” He’s watching him carefully, his chair pushed back from his sudden rise. “Do you know where you are?”

Morse swallows and drags a heavy shaking hand across his face. An IV line tugs. He tries not to think about it. “Cowley General.” His mouth doesn’t taste like much at all anymore. He can see DeBryn raise his brows. “The Radcliffe has white curtains.” The lights on the ward are half banked, but still the pale blue is clear in the dimness. 

“Yes, that’s right.” Max sighs something that sounds like it could’ve been a laugh. “Though simply ‘ _hospital_ ’ would’ve sufficed. What do you remember last? Anything?” 

Fingertips graze the gauze wrapped around his forehead. “Ah.” Morse winces and squints and tries to remember past the haze of bright hallways and insistent questions, before the remembrance of choking on dust. 

There’s Joan, at the edge of the Martyr’s Field ruin. Her voice, calling after him. And the phone ringing in Thursday’s office.

“Cranmer? It’s...” His throat tightens. He swallows around it. “Is everyone alright?” Everything is vague and soft in his memory. Pressure and pain and a spinning, spinning world. There’s so little between Joan’s voice and now. 

“You were the only one harmed, my friend.” Max is quiet. He sounds farther away than just past the edge of the bed. “The only one they pulled out. A minor collapse, according to Jim. He tried to come by earlier, he and Thursday both, but the ward’s off police right now.” He pulls the chair back and sits. 

“But… you’re here?”

“And I’m about as much of a policeman as you are a pathologist.” 

Morse’s lips thin. A spark of warmth pierces the fog. His head and hip pulse together in a feeling that’s not quite pain, but is otherwise indescribable. He figures that’s the morphia. When he turns his face towards DeBryn, an action that costs an unbelievable amount of energy, the pulsing deepens. “How bad?”

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

“Max."

“You’re alright. Hit your head, there’s some bad bruising on your leg. Lost a bit of blood. But nothing broken. You’ll be alright.” 

Broken. Morse sighs through parted lips. “And it was just… just me?” 

“Just you. Here, try to rest now, hm?” 

“I don’t… I mean, there’s not...” The pulse in his head turns to a throb. “I can’t… remember.” 

“You’re alright, Morse. Try to get some rest.”

“Max?”

“I’m right here.” 

Morse breathes deeply and closes his eyes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure i've had the idea for this fic since i first saw deguello a year ago. i originally wanted to experiment with longer chapters and uh that clearly did not work out but that's okay! also this might be five chapters. who's to say. i only wrote it
> 
> i'm not sure when pbs is getting season 7 so i've simply had to rewatch the entire show 7 times. i realized i posted my first fic for this show when i'd just started college! almost six years ago. i was an entire human baby and so was morse and now i can quote poetry too. growth?
> 
> i hope everyone has been staying healthy and safe! enjoy this fic and thanks so much for reading!!!


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse is bombarded in the absence of coherency.

Consciousness brushes Morse, or maybe it’s a hand on his forehead. Light enough he must still be dreaming. When he does manage to open his eyes, there’s only darkness.

* * *

He dreams of walking through a tunnel like the old mine, with faded yellow ribbon draping the walls and ceiling like cobweb. A sound like ocean waves or wind rushing through leaffull branches leads him forward, but it’s changing. A fork appears suddenly, and a utilitarian wooden chair, slightly scorched, sits right at the juncture. The dream shifts.

Now he’s sitting amidst scarlet velvet at the Roxy. Someone is breathing next to him.

The lights are off, the screen a bright white wall, silent except for a distant roar. He can’t see whoever it is, can’t make out their face, can't tell if the hair is dark or light, long or short. The screen turns into a tidal wave, a tower of water crashing forward. He wakes up as it comes upon him. 

* * *

The ceiling is grey. He stares at it as he waits for the edges to sharpen. Even that's enough to give away he’s somewhere new. His last conversation with Debryn floats to the forefront of his mind, but it takes him a little while longer to detangle it from surrounding events. 

Cowley General. Blue curtains. Nothing broken, so Max said, but he’s sure he had been on a ward. The space sounded large, he caught a glance of a row of beds, heard trolley wheels squeaking. But when he turns his head he sees that there’s enough space in the room for another bed and furniture and medical accouterments, but it's just him by the window. The lights are off but the window slats are parted. Everything stubbornly refuses to sharpen any further, including his thoughts, but he tries. Blue curtains, Cowley General, Max. Someone calling his name. Cranmer House. Trespassing. Joan. 

Something other than exhaustion is pressing against his him. He remembers, _concussion_ , but doesn't remember hitting his head. Or _what_ hit his head. He remembers that it hurt and is glad that it doesn't, now. He’s aware of a pulsing in his ears. Or maybe it’s a distant roar.

The door opens while he’s staring at it. A trolley enters, followed by the nurse pushing it. Her hair, tucked under a white cap, is sand colored. When she gets a little closer he can see that she's smiling, and unfamiliar. 

“Good morning, Mr. Morse. Lovely to see you awake.”

He makes to sit up but doesn't manage far, pain breaking through the fog, vaguely across his stomach, his hip. He winces, feels something shift against his leg. He moves again and watches an ice bag slip from under the sheet and fall to the floor. 

“Here, now.” There's a hand under his elbow, then his shoulder, and the new nurse helps prop him up, aided by a pillow she pulls from the cart. “That's better.” 

He’s not sure it actually is––the altitude change makes his head spin. He’s silent as he waits for the dizziness to stop, watching as she wraps a new ice bag in a crisp white cloth and replaces it under the sheet. He obediently opens his mouth for her to slip in a thermometer, holds up his wrist for her to take his pulse. The new pillow is softer than the other, and after a moment he does prefer this new vantage point, despite the dizziness.

“Morning?” he asks when able. 

“That’s right. You've been here since yesterday afternoon, slept the night.” She writes the numbers down and, before he can even ask, holds out a small glass of water. 

He reaches for it and notices the plaster on the back of his hand where the IV used to be and a thin cut, undressed, slicing across his palm. His hand is still shaking, but the water feels like clarity down his throat. “Thank you.”

“How're you feeling? Any pain, nausea?”

“Fine. No.”

“Good, wonderful.” She smiles. There are freckles across her nose and cheeks. “I’ll fetch you some breakfast, and the doctor will be by after to talk, alright?”

“Why’m I not on the ward anymore?”

She pauses, holding the water pitcher halfway between the trolley and bedside table. “Why, you’ve this whole room to yourself. That’s much more comfortable, no?” She puts it down. “And not to mention private. I’ll be back in a tic.” 

She pushes the trolley busily out. Morse settles his shoulders back, his head turning towards the pillow, and realizes he didn't get her name. 

* * *

“Mr. Morse? Breakfast.” 

A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his doze. He didn't dream. He misses sleep the moment he's awake. There's a tray on the overbed table now with a plate and a few cups, but by the time he’s gathered himself, the nurse has already gone. The door is half closed in her wake. 

Honeyed toast, sliced peaches in syrup, three small pills, a cup of tea. He leans back and stares at it all through slitted eyes. He doesn’t notice the footsteps in the hall getting louder until they're just outside his room. The door opens wide again and in walks Box, and Jago. 

They're so incongruent with the half empty room. Dark hulking figures among all the light, both already so pressed and starched this early. And it is early. He tries to sit up further but only manages about as well as the time earlier, grimacing as the refreshed ice bag falls to the floor. His heart is beating a little faster but it doesn't make the pulsing any better, or break through the fog. 

“Please, don't bother on our account.” Box smiles at him in such a way he seems like he could be human at the edges, if Morse didn't know better. “Well, you’re looking much better.” He stands next to the only chair in the room while Jago stalks in front of the window, stripes of morning sun cast across his face. “How’re you getting on? What's that now, two for two?”

Morse clears his throat and stares back, as evenly as he can lying here. He feels an instinct to ask after anyone else, but hadn't Max said it was only him pulled from the building? No one else. He didn't wait for Jago. He wonders how long it took him to get there. He doesn't reach for the glass.

The two of them share a look over him, like he wouldn't notice. Box glances at the floor and tugs the back of his coat collar. “Alright, Morse. I know it’s early. There’s just a loose end or two to tie up about what happened yesterday, that's all.” 

“What,” he hardly believes the words as he speaks them, “you want my _report_?” He can't be serious. Box is a lot of things, but he can't be serious about this. 

“If you're well enough to give it.”

Jago unfolds his arms and surveys the tray contents. “Sorry to’ve interrupted your…breakfast.” He tilts the little paper cup of pills towards him, peers inside. When he puts it back, his hand grazes the bowl of peaches. He licks peach syrup from his thumb. 

Morse swallows, eyes flicking between them and to the door, still slightly open. “I responded to Uniform’s call. Assistance at Cranmer House. Apprehending trespassers.” 

“Four.”

“Sorry?” 

“Four trespassers. That's how many were reported. And that's how many the PCs brought in.”

Morse blinks. Box stares evenly back at him and Jago has retreated to the window again. He speaks slowly, partially out of necessity, partially to avoid mincing his words. “When I arrived, PC Davies said he thought there might’ve been someone else. I went to investigate. A collapse… occurred.”

“You believed him? Davies.”

“I had no reason not to.” His voice is starting to roughen. 

“And? Did you find anyone?” 

“I…” It's like trying to recall the face in his dream of his companion at the Roxy. The more he focuses on that fleeting feeling of familiarity, the more his head hurts. He feels his frown turn to a grimace. How dare they come here like this. “I can't remember. I think there was.” 

Box sighs, like he was waiting for him to say that. “I want you to know I believe you, Morse. I do. But it’s thin. You were the only one found. Cranmer is a touchy subject for the boys upstairs, and Division is never happy when men get wounded. Especially over closed cases.” 

“Or for no good reason,” Jago adds. 

Anger and nausea are rising in him. He hates Box’s pathetic faux sympathetic tone, Jago’s snark. _And where were_ you _?_ he wants to snap. But a cold edge of fear is welling in him, too. He can’t forget what Strange said, about that damn gun. “I told you. I can't remember.” He scrubs at his face. 

“We believe you, Morse, we do. But Division…” He’s shaking his head. “Let’s just say, now don’t take this the wrong way, there’s been a lot of talk these days about carrying dead weight. But I won’t be able to help you later on, if––”

“ _Excuse_ me.” A nurse at the door speaks with firm authority. “It’s a bit early for visitors.” They all look towards her and with a jolt, Morse realizes it's _Monica_. 

She meets his eyes, then regards the other two as she steps further into the room. “Can I help you?”

“We were just leaving.” Box’s jaw is clenched, his body stiff. Jago pushes off the wall. They don't even look back at him, they say nothing, but Monica watches them go. 

She crosses the room. 

“Monica?” His throat is tight. It squeezes the name into a gasp. He can _feel_ his heart racing in his chest. It pulses in his head too. Dead weight. 

“Who were they?” She picks up the ice bag and perches on the very edge of the chair. “Who were those men? Morse?” 

“It’s not…” There's a glass in his hand and when he raises it to his lips he's shaking so much more. He takes a few slow sips and rests the cup on the edge of the overbed table, jostling the tray, slightly. “They're no one.”

“You haven't eaten.” Monica laughs, a little dry sound, like she can’t help it. How many times had she said the same before? Before, before. “You need to, to take your pills. What’ve you gotten yourself into now?” 

“Are you…” The words stick in his mouth and memory. “...on ward?”

“No,” she says, quietly. “Just passing. I’d heard… I wanted to see you were alright.” 

“Word spreads fast.”

“Small town. Smaller hospital.” She smiles, but it’s brief. Sad. “You really have to eat. I’ve no idea how they managed to get on the ward.”

“Someone let them in.” The damp toast and cold tea stare back. The sight of the peaches reignites his nausea, banishing any hunger that might've lingered. He swallows down the saliva that pools in his mouth. He closes his eyes tight, trying to will it all away. 

“Morse?” 

He wants to tell Monica to go, but doesn't trust himself to open his mouth without incident. He hears her push away the overbed table, the stench of honey and peaches vanishing, but his stomach still rebels. He can't stop it––he jerks forward and retches, but there's nothing to bring up. All it does is _hurt._

“Morse, take deep breaths.” Monica’s voice comes from close by. He’s losing focus, but he tries. “With me. In, out.” She breathes. 

He tries. In, out. 

“I can't give you anything--but I’ll be right back, okay? _Right_ back. Deep breaths.” 

The ceiling is grey. The curtains are grey. Everything softens like candle wax around him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapters it is! 
> 
> hope everyone's been healthy and safe. thanks so much for reading!!


End file.
